Chapter 2 long farewell (2)

I went into the kitchen and prepared Canadian bacon, scrambled eggs, coffee and toast.We eat it at the breakfast counter in the kitchen.This house was built in an era when a breakfast area was a must in the kitchen. I said I had to go to the office and pick up his suitcase on the way back.He handed me the deposit slip.There was some color in his face now, and his eyes no longer seemed to be sunken deep in his head, requiring one to go in and explore. Before going out, I put the whiskey on the coffee table in front of the sofa. "Put your pride on this place," I said, "and, do me a favor by calling Las Vegas."

He just smiled and shrugged.I was still very upset when I went down the steps.I do not know why.I also don't understand why a man would rather starve and wander the streets than pawn his clothes.Whatever his rules were, he was playing by his own. I have never seen such an unusual suitcase.Made of blanched pigskin, it should have been light cream when new, with gold fittings.The British ones, even if they were available here, seemed to cost eight hundred dollars, not two hundred. I force the suitcase in front of him and look at the bottles on the coffee table.He hadn't touched it, he was as conscious as I was.He was smoking, but didn't look like he wanted to.

"I called Randy. He was mad that I didn't call him sooner," he said. "A stranger to help you," I said, then pointed to the suitcase. "From Sylvia?" He looks out the window. "No. Someone gave it to me in England long before I knew her. It was a long time ago, really. If you'll lend me an old one, I'll keep it with you." I pulled five twenty-dollar bills out of my wallet, put them in front of him, and said, "I don't need collateral." "That's not what you mean. You don't have a pawn shop. I just don't want to take it to Vegas. I don't need that much money."

"Okay. You keep the money and I keep the suitcase. But this house is vulnerable to thieves." He said nonchalantly, "It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all." He changed and we had dinner at Mosuo's around 5:30.Did not drink.He caught a bus at the Kahunga station, and I drove home, thinking wildly.He opened the suitcase on my bed just now and stuffed it into one of my tote bags, and now his empty suitcase is on my bed.The case was accompanied by a golden key which fit in a lock.I locked the empty box, tied the key to the handle, and stowed it on top of the high shelf in the wardrobe.It feels like this box is not empty, but what is inside has nothing to do with me.

The night was very still, and the room seemed emptier than usual.I set up the chessboard and played a game of chess against Steinitz on the French side. He beat me with forty-four moves, but I made him sweat twice. At nine-thirty the telephone rang in a voice I had heard before. "Is that Mr. Philip Marlowe?" "Yes, I'm Marlowe." "Mr. Marlowe, I'm Sylvia Lennox. We had a quick meeting one night last month in front of the Dancer's. I heard later that you were kind enough to take Terry home." "yes." "I guess you know we're not husband and wife now, but I'm kind of worried for him. He gave up that flat in Westwood, and no one seems to know where he is."

"I noticed how worried you were the night we first met." "Look, Mr. Marlowe, I was married to that man. I don't have much sympathy for drunks. Maybe I was a little heartless, maybe I had important things to do. You're a private eye, you can press if you want." industry standard pricing." "Mrs. Lennox, there's no industry standard. He's hitchhiking to Las Vegas. He has a friend over there who will give him a job." Brightened up, she said, "Oh—to Las Vegas? He's so passionate. That's where we got married." I said, "I guess he forgot. Otherwise he'd rather be somewhere else."

She didn't hang up my phone, but instead laughed, very playfully. "Have you always been this rude to customers?" "You are not my client, Mrs. Lennox." "Maybe one day.? You know? Say it to your girl friend." "The answer is the same. Last time the guy was down and out, all dirty, and had no money. If you thought it was worth your time, you might be able to find him. He didn't ask for your help then, and he probably doesn't now. " She said indifferently: "You can't know that. Good night." Of course, she was absolutely right, and I was dead wrong.But I don't think I'm wrong, it's just that I'm unhappy.If she had called half an hour earlier, I might have been so angry that I would have beaten Steinitz to the ground. Unfortunately, he has been dead for fifty years, and the chess game is read in a book.

Three days before Christmas, I got a $100 cash check from a Las Vegas bank.Inside was a note written on big hotel stationery.He thanked me, wished me a Merry Christmas, wished me luck and said he hoped to see me again soon.Wonderful in the postscript: "Sylvia and I are starting our second honeymoon. She said please don't be mad at her, she wants to try again." I read the rest of the details in some snobby column on the social pages of the paper.I don't read those columns very often, only when I can't find anything to hate. Our foreign correspondents were thrilled to hear that young couple Terry and Sylvia Lennox reunited in Las Vegas.She is the youngest daughter of San Francisco and Pebble Beach billionaire Harlan Potter.Sylvia is asking Marcel and Jeanne Diox to redecorate the entire Encino mansion, from the basement to the roof, in the most explosive fashion.As you readers may recall, the eighteen-room log house was a wedding present to Sylvia from her last husband, Kurt Westheim.Someone asked Kurt what happened, and the answer was in Saint-Tropez, France, where he was said to be permanently settled.There was also a countess of very noble blood, and two lovely children.You may ask, what did Harlan Potter think of the remarriage of his daughter and son-in-law?I can only guess.Mr Porter never gives interviews.Beloveds of society, to what extent can you indulge yourselves?

I threw the newspaper into the corner and turned on the TV.After reading the bullshit articles on the social version, even wrestling seems very interesting.But things may be true.It’s best to be real when you’re on the social media. I had in mind the kind of eighteen-room log cabin that would match the Potters' millions, not to mention Diox's eventual phallic new decor.But I can't picture Terry Lennox lounging by one of the pools in Bermuda shorts, ordering the butler on the wireless to chill the champagne and roast the grouse.I can't imagine it.It's none of my business that guy wants to be someone else's teddy bear.I don't want to see him at all.But I know we'll meet--not even for his goddam pigskin-and-gold suitcase.

It was five o'clock on a rainy March evening when he walked into my dilapidated smart mall building.He looked much different--older, more sober, serious, and peaceful.He was one of those men who have learned to dodge fists, in an oyster-white raincoat, gloves and no hat, white hair as smooth as a bird's breast. "Let's find a quiet bar for a drink," he said, as if he had been here ten minutes before. "I mean, if you have time." We didn't shake hands.We never shake hands.Englishmen don't shake hands all the time like Americans do, and though he's not English, he has a little of their eccentricity.

I said, "Let's go over to my house and get your fancy suitcase. That thing makes me uneasy." He shook his head and said, "You are kind enough to keep it for me." "why?" "That's what I want. You don't mind? It's kind of tied to my days before I was a rascal." I said, "Bullshit. But none of my business." "If you're afraid of being stolen--" "That's none of my business. Let's go get a drink." We head to Victor's Bar.He drove a rust-colored Cupid Jowett with only room for the two of us under a thin canvas awning.The interior is upholstered in light-colored leather and the fittings look like silver.I'm not too particular about cars, but this damn thing did make me drool a little.He said it could reach sixty-five per second.Inside the car was a stubby little gear that reached knee height. "Four-speed," he said, "they haven't invented an automatic transmission to replace it. They don't really need it. You can even go uphill in third gear, which is the fastest in traffic anyway." "Wedding Gifts?" "One of those 'I just saw this neat little bauble in the window' kind of casual gift. I'm a person with a big appetite." "Fine," I said, "if it doesn't come with a price tag." He gave me a quick look, then back to the wet sidewalk.Dual wipers gently scraped the small windshield. "Price tag? There's a price tag for everything, old friend. You think I'm unhappy?" "Sorry, it was my slip of the tongue." "I'm rich. Who the hell wants to be happy?" There was a sourness in his tone that I hadn't heard before. "What about your drinking?" "One hundred percent gentle, man. For some odd reason, I seem to be able to get hold of that stuff. It's hard to say, isn't it?" "Maybe you're not an alcoholic." We sat at the corner of the bar in Victor's bar drinking screwdrivers.He said: "People here don't know how to mix. What they call a screwdriver is just lime or lemon juice and gin, with a little sugar or bitters. A real screwdriver is half gin and half Rose's." Lemon juice and nothing else. Far better than a martini." "I've never been particular about booze. Do you get along with Randy Starr? People on my street say he's a badass." He leaned back, looking thoughtful. "I guess he is. I guess they all are. But he can't tell from the outside. I can tell you one or two who belong in the same line in Hollywood. Randy is not annoying. He is legal in Las Vegas Business man. Check it out next time you're there. He'll be your friend." "Not really. I don't like hooligans." "That's just a noun, Marlowe. That's the way the world is. It's the way it is after two wars, and we're going to keep it going. Randy, me, and another partner had a hard time together. We've had a relationship ever since." tacit agreement." "Then why don't you go to him when you need help?" He drank the wine and gestured to the waiter. "Because he can't say no." The waiter brought new drinks and I said, "You're just talking to me. If that guy happens to owe you something, think about it from his perspective, he'd love a chance to pay back." He shook his head slowly and said, "I know you're right. Of course, I did ask him for a job, but when I got a job, I worked hard. As for asking for favors or offering hands, I don't know." Dry." "And yet you accept help from strangers." He looked straight into my eyes. "The stranger may keep walking and pretend not to hear." We drank three glasses of screwdriver, not a double, and it didn't bother him at all.This kind of weight is only enough to arouse the alcohol bug in the stomach of an alcoholic.So I guess he's probably cured of his alcoholism. Then he drove me back to the office. "We usually have dinner at 8:15," he said. "Only millionaires can afford that kind of money. Only millionaire servants put up with that kind of pie these days. Lots of interesting people coming." From then on, he used to drop in at around five o'clock for a chat.We don't necessarily go to the same bar all the time, but we go to Victor's more than anywhere else.There may be reasons for him that I don't know about.He never drank to excess, which surprised himself. "It's like a swing every other day," he said. "It's terrible when it hits. Afterwards it's like it never happened." "I don't understand why a man of all honors like you would want to drink with a private detective." "Are you humble?" "No. I just can't figure it out. I'm pretty friendly, but we're not part of the same world. I don't even know where you live, only in Encino. I guess your family life is perfect." "I don't have much of a family life." We drank corkscrew again.The store was almost empty.Only a few alcoholics sat on high stools by the bar.They reached for the first glass of wine slowly, watching their hands carefully so as not to snort. "I don't understand. Could you please clarify?" "Big productions with little plot. Like the studio guys say. I guess Sylvia's happy, I'm not. That doesn't matter much in our circles. If you don't have to work or Think about spending, always have something to do. Not really fun, but rich people don't know it. They've never tasted real fun. They've never wanted a thing very badly, except maybe other people's wives. With carpenter's wives Their desire pales in comparison to their desire for a new curtain for the living room." I didn't say a word and let him speak. He said: "I'm mostly just killing time. Time goes by very slowly. Play tennis, play golf, swim, ride horses, watch Sylvia's friends trying to last until lunchtime, and then start to eat and drink to clear the night." It's fun to be drunk." "The night you went to Las Vegas, she said she didn't like drunks." He smiled with his mouth crooked.I'm used to seeing his scarred face, but when his expression changes, the stiffness on one side of his face is more obvious, and only then will I realize it again. "She means drunks with no money. With money they're just booze drinkers. They throw up in the hall and have their own steward." "You don't have to be so mean." He drank his drink and stood up, saying, "I've got to go, Marlowe. Besides, I'm annoying you, and God knows I'm annoying myself." "You don't bother me. I'm a trained listener. Sooner or later I'll see why you enjoy being a domesticated poodle so much." He gently touched his scar with his fingertips, with an indifferent smile on his face. "You should be wondering why she wants me to accompany you, not why I'm there, waiting patiently on the satin cushion for her to pat me on the head." "You like satin upholstery," I said, rising to follow him, "you like to sleep in silk sheets, to have a bell to ring, and a steward with a submissive smile on his face." "Possibly. I was raised in an orphanage in Salt Lake City." We stepped out the door into the weary evening, and he said he wanted to go for a walk.But we came in my car, and this time I was quick enough to pay the bill first.I watched him disappear.A shop-window light flickered on his white hair, and a moment later he was lost in the mist. I like him more when he's drunk, down and out, hungry, miserable, and self-respecting.really?Maybe I just like being Big Brother.Reasons for doing things are hard to understand.In my profession, there are times when I should ask questions, and there are times when I should let the other person slowly lose their temper and finally blow up.Every good cop knows this trick.Kind of like playing chess or boxing.Some people you have to try to push, so that he can't stand still.There are some people that you just throw a punch and they will be defeated by themselves. If I asked him, he would tell me the story of his life.But I didn't even ask how his face was ruined.If I had asked, and he had told me, it might have saved two lives.But it's just not sure. I haven't seen him for a month.When I saw him again, it was five o'clock in the morning and it was just dawn.The doorbell rang non-stop and woke me up from the bed.I shuffled across the hall to open the door.He stood there like he hadn't slept in a week.He was wearing a light overcoat with the collar turned up, and he seemed to be shaking.A dark felt hat was pulled down over his eyes. He has a gun in his hand. The gun wasn't pointed at me, it was just held in my hand.It was a medium-caliber automatic pistol, foreign-made, certainly not a Colt or a Savage.With his pale and tired face, scars on his face, raised collar, pulled down hat brim and gun in his hand, he looks like a character who jumped out of a gangster movie. "You take me to Tijuana for a ten-fifteen flight," he said. "I have a passport and a visa, and I have everything arranged except transportation. For some reason, I can't travel from Los Angeles to By train or bus or plane. Is five hundred dollars a reasonable taxi fare?" I stood at the door and didn't move to let him in. "Five hundred dollars and a gun?" I asked. He looked down blankly at the gun in his hand, then put it in his pocket. "It's probably a protection," he said, "to protect you, not me." "Then come in." I turned sideways, and he rushed in exhaustedly, and sat down on the chair. The living room was still dark because the owner didn't trim it, and bushes grew densely outside the window, covering the casement.I turned on a light, took out a cigarette and lit it.I stared down at him, ran my hands through my tousled hair, and wore the usual tired smile on my face. "What the hell am I doing, sleeping in on such a glamorous morning? Ten fifteen, huh? Well, plenty of time. Let's go to the kitchen and I'll make some coffee."